Something Else

How can I truly be loving,

if I'm still uncovering myself?

Do I stand the test of time,

or do I fall beyond the wayside?

Listening all this time

becomes destructive in the end.

A voice spoken but left unheard.

A noise left out in the cold,

given no room to inhale.

Best left to harden, to

fall susceptible to those

who find it repulsive.

I can still be loving,

in its own way.

I can still show my love,

once the door opens again.